Inspiration Strikes
by green-eyed blonde
Summary: Smutty slash! Artistic!Draco. Dirty oneshot. What more could you want?


**Warnings: This is really smutty, and pr0ny. There's not really any plot (but I hope you like it anyway).**

**DISCLAIMER: I merely taint the characters of others, because I find them more intriguing than those I could come up with.**

**Inspiration Strikes**

"Boo," muttered Draco petulantly. This was stupid. Painting on _canvas_, like some dull conformist. Artists were supposed to think outside the box, not inside the little white square of canvas made only for paint. He wanted something new. This wasn't inspiring at all. He huffed and his lips pursed and pouted, at the same time. He tried painting on the wall, and on the coffee table, and on the sidewalk outside. That last really ruined his brush. He also tried painting in the bathtub, and on a rag he found. But none of these worked. None were right.

Then Harry came home.

"Draco, what was all over the sidew-" he saw the rest of the house. He looked at Draco, standing in the living room, in frantic horror.

Draco stood there, brush in hand, and stared at Harry, mouth slightly open. He slowly approached his dark-haired lover.

"Take off your clothes, take off your clothes," he said quickly, still walking. Harry put out his hands and yelled a little, but seeing the blind determination and the inspired look gracing the boy's face, quickly began removing his clothes, to save them.

"Harry Harry Harry Harry take off your clothes take off your clothes now quick hurry I Am Inspired go go go I have to do it fast do you fast Harry hurry," muttered Draco Malfoy.

Harry did as he was told. He was used to this. Draco became odd when he was being artistic. Artists were so odd. If he didn't comply with whatever 'inspired' Draco, he would pay dearly. And for a very long time. So Harry panicked, because frankly, an inspired Draco was a possessed one. He stripped and stood, poised and ready to do anything Draco asked of him.

Draco was pleased, and he bit his lip. His eyes were intoxicatingly hazy. He stood absolutely still for a moment, save his eyes, and then suddenly his arm shot out and the black wet tip of the paintbrush made static ecstatic contact with Harry's smooth, tanned skin. For that second, that second of contact, nobody moved. Then Draco shuddered. Harry licked his lips.

A sharp intake of breath, and Draco began to drag the black strip across a toned chest, in curving spiraling strokes. The muscles of Harry's stomach automatically shrank back once the brush reached it, but Draco followed. He swirled the inky black in intricate designs across Harry's front, and then circled him, dragging the brush around the boy's waist. Once more around left him with his back. His smooth, gently curving back, ending in a beautifully rounded bottom.

Draco sighed at the sight. This was inspiration. The tiny indents of Harry's spine, he filled those in with black. That perfect dip of his lower back, that was lined in striking and sprawling lines, unfurling from the centre. He backed away for a moment, dipping his drying brush in the wet darkness again. Then he came back to his muse, rolling dark curls down the backs of his legs. Still crouching, he placed his hands on the unpainted parts of Harry's legs and turned him around. Harry breathed a soft 'oh'. Draco stood up and looked into emerald eyes for a moment. Then he raised his own hand, palm up. He handed Harry the paintbrush. The boy took both the brush and the hand, and began coating the latter. He turned slow circles in the soft pale palm, and then extended his strokes out over the slender fingers. Draco held up his other hand, and the process was repeated.

Draco took a blackened finger and traced it over his lover's famed scar, accentuating and covering it at the same time. Then he lowered his head to Harry's warm shoulder, and grabbed the boy's still-clean member. He slid his hand from the base to the tip, hearing the brunette groan throatily. He pulled his hand away to see black, only black. The familiar turned unfamiliar. He did it again, and Harry gasped and pressed into his hand further. He realized that Draco was still dressed, and began quickly rectifying that. He hurriedly slipped each button of the blonde's shirt through its respective hole, and tore apart the teeth of his zipper. He frantically tried to yank down those damned boxers, as Draco never let his hand leave him. His other hand raised to rest itself on Harry's arm.

Harry pulled Draco's face to his and kissed him frantically and forcefully. Draco whimpered. Draco had withdrawn his hand by now, to make room for his own pulsing erection. Laboured breathing and moans filled the air for a few moments, before Harry broke away. He grabbed the other and brought him over to the couch. He leaned over the arm, exposing himself to Draco. The blonde faltered for a moment and looked around, but Harry stopped him.

"Forget it, Malfoy, just go!" He was practically snarling. Draco loved that. He loved the anger and the force that came out of Harry during sex. The wish to be hurt, the pleasure of pain and intensity.

So In Draco pressed. Harry cried out sharply, and his impaler paused for a second to allow him to relax. The pause was pregnant, and was probably the most difficult thing Draco ever had to endure. When he felt his surroundings slacken slightly, he began to move tentatively. Harry quickly adjusted, and began to move with him. Draco stared at the sight in front of him with half-closed eyes. Harry's hands supported him under his chest, his elbows bent and trembling with effort. His glasses had been thrown away at some point, and his eyes were squeezed shut against the couch, his lips pulled back to reveal white teeth. And he was covered in exotic swirling black, bold lines curling all over his body. Draco was Inspired. He thrusted especially hard, then, and Harry moaned and pushed back, forcing Draco to go as deep as he could. Draco was crazy now, and muttering a stream of incapacitated praise and delight. He spoke incessantly; begging, swearing, loving, worshipping. Draco felt that bubbling squirming sensation inside him, and he reached around to stroke Harry in time to his movements.

Just a quivering pause before ecstasy descended. Draco cried out, speaking faster and louder, depositing himself inside Harry in a hot spurt of white bliss. A second later, Harry's breath hitched and he was quietly blinded and deafened.

A great collapse, a soggy relief. There was paint all over Draco now, too. And Harry had handprints everywhere, everywhere, overlapping the ornate designs which Draco had carefully painted on. They slept, all black, they slept.

Later, friends would come over. They'd wonder why the couch was smeared with so much black paint, especially in one place on the arm.

Harry would shrug and smile. His reply:

"Draco was inspired."

**A/N: Review, lovelies! I hope it was alright…**


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